


Proud

by Fyre



Category: Thor (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young Loki had but one desire: to be a mighty warrior worthy of Asgard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired by an observation about the trailer for The Dark World. Technically, sort of a spoiler based on that.

He was covered in bruises and not for the first time.

Of course, he could not let Father see, or Thor. They would think him weak, if he could not hold his own against one of his playmates. Father would be disappointed, but he would mask it, and Thor…

Thor would speak of bold attempts and how he would teach Loki to become a great warrior.

It was shameful.

So Loki retreated to his chamber, tending his aching limbs with cloths soaked in ice water.

The coldness was a comfort. He always preferred it to heated compresses. Something in the ice eased the pain in his blood, and for a moment, he could pretend that he had not been knocked in his backside by some lower-born whelp of a minor Godling.

It was not that he was an incapable warrior. 

Father had taught him alongside his brother, but Loki found their heavy weapons clumsy and unyielding. Father favoured longswords that demanded great strength to wield. Thor had that strength in abundance, but Loki was slighter of build. His arm was not made for longswords and vast, weighted weapons.

A gentle hand tapped upon his door, and Loki looked up guardedly.

It was not his Father or his brother, he knew. The Allfather would enter any room he so pleased, and Thor believed that as brothers, they shared all things. Oft, he would stride into Loki’s room uninvited and throw himself down upon Loki’s bed, demanding entertainment or diversion. 

Only Mother ever knocked. 

“Loki?”

If he stayed silent, perhaps she would think he was sleeping. But then, perhaps, she would open the door a fraction to look in upon him. Better to face her and pretend that what little pride he had wasn’t as bruised as his backside. 

He left the bowl of ice water on the table and went to the door, opening it only a little.

His mother gazed at him, smiling her gentle smile. 

He knew there were whispers that he was his mother’s child, more so than his father’s. They said he was gentle like the Lady Frigga, while Thor was wholly their father’s son. There was no shame in that, for his mother was a wise and kind woman, but Loki did not want to be know for his gentleness. Too often did people equate it with weakness, and Loki did not wish to be weak.

“May I come in?” she asked.

Loki opened the door a little wider, granting her entrance, though he looked at his feet. “Did Thor tell you?” he asked, his voice low. “Or was it Father?”

“Does a mother not have eyes, Loki?” she said. Her voice was calm, smooth as silk. She lifted her hand to touch his cheek. “I saw you return. You hid the pain well, but I know when a child of mine is hurt.”

He flushed, stepping back. “It is only bruises,” he said, turning from her and walking back to the table. He flung himself upon the chair, snatching at one of the damp cloths from the shimmering bowl of water.

His mother approached, sitting down close to him. “You were training?”

“We were given training swords to use,” he said sullenly, laying the cloth against his bruised forearm. Andrimnir’s son was a larger boy, much like Thor. He had little grace, but he had strength, and he had knocked the training sword clean from Loki’s hand before cracking him across the arm with the flat of his own.

His mother sighed and took the cloth from his hand. She dipped it in the water, then wrung it out and took his wrist in her hand, pressing the cloth tenderly to the bruised flesh. “You are not made for the longsword, Loki,” she said.

“No,” he said, scowling. “I am made for gentleness and meekness. Too fragile and fair to be a warrior.”

Mother looked at him, both amused and… angered? He could see the flicker of fury in her eyes. “Who told you such a thing?”

“They do not need to say it,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Look at me, Mother. I have none of Father’s strength. Thor took it all.”

She set aside the cloth and lifted his chin with her cool, wet fingertips. “There are many kinds of strength, my son,” she said. “Perhaps you are not as strong as your father or your brother, but do not imagine for a moment that it means you are weak.”

Loki stared at her, and her thumb brushed his cheek. 

She smiled. “You try too hard to be as they are,” she said. “It is true you are not made for the longsword, but this does not mean you cannot bear arms.” 

“But Father…”

“Your father believes a weapon makes a man,” she said. “I believe it is the other way around.” She leaned close and her lips brushed his brow. “Meet me in the small hall in the north west tower on the morrow, after the morning meal. Rest tonight and let your bruises heal.”

She left him then and Loki sat in silence, tending his bruises. 

It was true what she said of Father. To him a man was judged on the strength of his arm above all things. Asgard was borne up on the shoulders of the mighty.

He slept little, aching and pride-sore, but drew on a half-smile as he broke his fast. It would not do for Father or Thor to imagine that his drubbing on the training field had troubled him, or that his bruises still hurt. 

He managed to keep from flinching when Thor happily slapped his back and told him that soon, they would spar together. Not this day, of course, Thor added, for he intended to swim in the great lakes, but soon.

Loki knew his big brother spoke out of kindness. For all that Thor was their father’s son, he was also their mother’s son too. He knew Loki was bruised and aching, and would not shame him further by beating him when he was already humiliated. 

That, more than anything, put him from his food.

Loki maintained his smile, but walked from the hall as early as he could. He roamed the halls for a time, trying to calm himself to see his mother, then as she requested went to the north west tower.

The room was a private meeting chamber, a fraction of the size of the great hall, but no less splendid. The morning light cut through wide windows on every wall, the polished tiles of the floor gleaming. There was little furniture, the room seldom used or occupied, but one table stood against the wall, laden with weapons.

His mother was waiting, standing on the balcony, gazing out over Asgard. Her hair was loose and she looked serene and lovely in a flowing gown of seafoam green.

“Mother.” 

She turned, a soft smile on her face. “I thought you had forgotten me.”

Loki flushed at the reproof. “I needed some air,” he said.

Mother descended from the balcony and motioned for him to accompany her to the table. “I thought that may be the case,” she said. She gestured to the table. “I want you to choose a weapon. Something that you think you should fight with.”

Loki looked at her, then at the table. There were throwing axes, longswords, short swords, war hammers, even a gleaming spear. She had even brought small daggers, the blade of which was barely longer than his hand.

“Why?” he asked.

She looked down at him with a knowing smile. “I am curious,” she said.

He searched the table again, then picked one of the shorter swords. It was not as heavy as the longsword his father favoured, but it still had weight. He tested it in his grip. “This one,” he said.

“Why?”

He hesitated. “A warrior must be able to use a sword,” he said.

His mother picked up the small dagger, and walked past him towards the centre of the room, then turned to face him. “Attack me.”

Loki blanched. “Mother…”

She stood there, calm and smiling. “Do you disobey your sword master, Loki?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

But you are Mother, he wanted to say. But you are only armed with a little dagger. You are graceful and quiet and a woman.

He flushed. “The weapons are sharp,” he said.

“How better to learn my lessons?” she said, tilting the dagger slightly at her side, the light glancing off the short blade. “Attack me.”

He lunged at her, and she slid aside, smooth was water around a rock. Loki spun on his heel, startled, raising his sword. He swung the blade in an arc, slow so as not to hurt, but she was out of reach, and he heard the light ting of her brushing aside the blade with her dagger.

“Come now,” she chided. “Would you fight your brother with such hesitance? You wish to do battle. Attack me.”

He swallowed down his apprehension and attacked as best he could, but his mother was a ghost in the wind. Each time he believed he had her, his blade found only air, and she laughed, but it was not mocking. It was teasing, a challenge. She did not gloat over him.

“You are fighting like your father,” she said, tapping the tip of her blade against her fingertips. “Now, fight like yourself.”

Loki’s hand tightened around the grip of his sword. Even the short sword was proving heavy, his young arm not strong enough to maintain it, but his mother scarce seemed out of breath nor even a little flushed. 

Like himself, he thought. He did not know himself. Was he Loki Odinson or was he something softer and meeker? No. He was of Asgard. He would prove that.

He threw himself forward with all the energy he had, and the blade flew. It was wild and uncoordinated and for a moment of terror, he thought he might cut his mother, but she spun like a leaf caught in the wind, and suddenly, her blade was at his throat.

The sword dropped from Loki’s hand.

Mother drew back with a small smile. “That is not your weapon, Loki,” she said. “You know that.”

Loki was breathing hard, and was startled to realise his legs were shaking. He sat down heavily on the steps that led to the balcony, and his mother sank to sit beside him. She put aside her dagger and laid her hand gently on his knee.

“Your father was wrong,” she said. “A man cannot be made by his weapon. It is the man who is the weapon.” She met his eyes. “Look to me, my son. What do you see?”

Loki wet his lips. “I see you, Mother.”

She shook her head. “You see what all see: a woman, a mother, a lady. You see someone dressed in silks. You do not see someone who can fight.”

“You can,” he whispered. 

“Yes,” she said, still smiling. “I can, and that is one of the weapons I carry: that no one will look to me and believe it. To be a warrior is more than simply taking a weapon in your hand, Loki. It is the knowledge and skill that you bear also.” She squeezed his knee. “You are swift of foot, and you will be taller even than your brother. What you lack in strength, you have in speed. You are quick and clever. These are your greatest weapons.”

He looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. “But I want to fight well, Mother,” he confessed in a small voice. “I want Father to know that I am capable of defending Asgard as he does.”

“You will never fight as your father does,” she said. Loki’s heart sank, but his mother tilted his head up. “But you will be a mighty warrior. You are not made for longswords and war hammers, Loki. Those are weapons for the strong of arm. You have wit and speed. You must learn to use them to fight in a way that will suit you best.”

“But how?” he asked.

His mother’s eyes were warm and bright. “I will teach you,” she said, “and the next time you step onto the training floor, they are the ones who will find themselves on the flat of their back.”

He stared at her. “Truly?”

She leaned closer, a glimmer of mischief in her eye. “How do you think I caught your father’s eye?”

Loki’s eyes widened. He could not help laughing at the thought of his graceful Lady Mother drubbing his father. Mother laughed too, putting her arms around him and embracing him warmly.

“You will be mighty, Loki Odinson,” she whispered. “I know you shall.”

Loki wrapped his arms around her. “I will make you proud, mother,” he promised.


End file.
